A shoebox of letters hand written on yellow looseleaf pages upon pages of promises written in red ink, a coffin in need of a burial a reminder of a life and a love denied.
February 14th, 1989 penned within my first year the name at the top is not mine but she writes to him the way you will write to me only two decades later.
I shiver as I read each draft; to realize our failed romance was but an echo of the past.
I found letters addressed to the former tenant of my apartment, His name was Ricky and the only insights I have about him are the contents of a singular shoebox I found in the attic.